Marco Di Caprio

These days, Art is a chase across a darkened field,
 eyes fixed on a trail of artificial light.
 The rim of a chalice, bitter, empty.
 I swallow the city’s poisons and see them clearly:
 those tired eyes, primates running ragged
 through antidepressants and antipsychotics.

These days, Art is a chase through a forest
 of steel beams and shattered plexiglass,
 light breaking over a metallic ground.
 A riot of stares,
 empty mind games flickering through their phones.

These days, Art is a pale, nameless effort
 in the corrupted air I breathe,
 a furrow driven through thorns,
 green lights and a transistor.

I keep running, lit from within,
 toward a vanishing field,
 but the city has entered me,
 steel and glass beneath the skin.
 The page turns white, cold,
 and will not take a mark.